When Death Draws Near

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  The pastor stopped his clogging and glided to the snake boxes.

  My toes curled and creeping ripples crossed my shoulders.

  He reached into the box and grabbed two rattlers with one meaty hand, then hoisted them overhead. Easily over four feet long, they stretched forward and upward, their tongues flicking in and out.

  I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs. Aynslee had her hands in front of her eyes but peeked through her fingers. Sarah imitated Aynslee but peered through her fingers at my daughter.

  He wrapped one snake around his neck and began clogging again, the second rattler dangling like a limp scarf from his hand. A younger man stopped twirling and reached for the snake. The pastor passed him the one in his hand, then removed the one around his neck and continued to dance.

  The tempo increased. Another man pulled more snakes out of a box and held them up. Dust joined the campfire smoke and swirled around the dancing worshipers. A woman lit the rag stuffed in the Coke bottle. The tang of kerosene touched the air. She passed the flame under her chin and outstretched arm. She didn’t flinch, nor did the flame seem to burn her.

  Again the music changed, slowing down. One by one, the handlers returned the snakes to their boxes. The woman extinguished the flame and placed the bottle on the card table. The pastor returned to the earthen pulpit, sweat pouring down his face and dampening his shirt under his arms.

  “Praise God.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Do I have an amen?”

  The congregation shouted enthusiastically as they returned to their seats.

  I lowered my feet to the ground and rolled my head from side to side to relax my neck muscles.

  “My brothers and sisters in Christ.” The pastor waved his arms, urging the congregation forward. “Are ya hurtin’? Do you have Christ?”

  This was the altar call. As people went forward and gathered in groups for prayer or dropped to their knees in front of the rise of earth, I studied their faces. I identified six who were the primary snake handlers. Itching for a pencil, I concentrated on the individual features. My gaze then shifted to the rest of the congregation. I spotted Blake in the last row.

  He was staring at me.

  Quickly I turned to the front and slid down in my chair.

  I could still feel his gaze burrowing into the back of my head.

  Jumping to my feet, I whispered to Aynslee, “I’ll be right back.” I strolled over to the group praying closest to me, making sure they were between Blake and myself, and put my hand on the nearest shoulder. It wasn’t until Ruby reached up and took my arm that I realized it was her. A woman near the center led the prayer, while other voices murmured agreement or spoke in tongues. I peeked through the bowed heads but couldn’t see Blake.

  The prayer continued, this time with Ruby speaking. “Lord, I ask You to cleanse Sister Gwen.”

  My head shot up. They were now praying over me.

  Ruby gently propelled me forward until the prayer group surrounded me. Hands touched my arm, head, and back. “Touch her, O Lord. Free her . . .”

  My face burned, my eyes spilled over. God already knows the outcome. Why are you praying for me?

  A large hand slid across my back and cupped my neck. Blake. I knew without looking.

  Breathing became difficult. Was he praying over me or giving me a warning?

  After an eternity, the prayer ended.

  I turned. No one stood behind me, but I could still feel the heat of Blake’s hand on my neck.

  The tambourine woman had the mic and belted out a heartfelt rendition of “Amazing Grace.” I rejoined Aynslee and Sarah on the lawn chairs.

  “What’s wrong with your face?” Aynslee asked.

  “You mean, besides having on no makeup, being dirty, and getting some horsehair smeared down the side?”

  “You look funny.”

  I felt funny, but now wasn’t the time to analyze my emotions. Being married to Robert and with our turbulent divorce, I’d become very good at stuffing down feelings. I shrugged, hoping she’d drop the subject.

  The evening’s service wound down. A few believers were in front of the pulpit, some on their knees, but the bulk of the folks were moving off into the dark toward the tents. “Come on, Mom, I know where we’re sleeping.”

  She wove around the chairs, tents, campfires, and attendees to a blue-and-white tent near the stream. Blake stood by the opening, a propane lantern in his hand.

  My steps faltered for a moment. “Um, did you want your coat back?”

  “Eventually. For now, you need a light.” He handed me the lantern.

  I took it. Our fingers barely touched. Heat flooded my face and I looked away.

  “Would you, ah, would you like to go for a walk?” he asked. The lantern glinted on his sun-bleached hair, and his lip twitched with the tiniest smile. A hint of a five-o’clock shadow edged his strong jaw.

  My rear end and thighs ached from riding, eyes burned from campfire smoke, and stomach churned from digesting squirrel stew. “Sure.” I handed the light to Aynslee and gave her my most devastating mom stare. Don’t you dare say a word . . .

  She smirked at me. “Don’t stay out too late.”

  I gritted my teeth. This has to be Robert’s influence on my daughter.

  He nodded to the right. I stuffed my hands in the coat pockets and moved in that direction. The different tents lit up as the worshipers settled in for the night, and the full moon offered a blue tint to the landscape. We didn’t speak until we reached a place where the stream pooled, forming a medium-sized pond.

  My hands became sweaty, and I pulled them out and wiped them on my skirt. Why did I walk out here? Blake didn’t trust me. He probably just wanted me alone to grill me on my purpose for being here.

  The stream burbled pleasantly, and the fragrance of some flower perfumed the air. The moonlight glinted on the watery surface, and an occasional splash told me fish were seeking a bug dinner. Cool air fluttered through my hair.

  Glancing at Blake, I found him studying me. “Do I have something on my face?” I reached up and checked.

  “No. No.”

  It just figured. Finally, here I was under a romantic moon with the best-looking man in the state, if not the East Coast, rich as King Solomon, and I was dressed in a puke-green blouse, long dirt-brown skirt safety-pinned at the waist, no makeup, and smelling like a horse.

  “Did you just snort?”

  Oh yeah, the icing on the cake. I just snorted. “I . . . uh . . . had something in my throat.” Smooth, Gwen.

  “Well, Gwen—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m just wondering what your story is.”

  “My . . . story?”

  “You have a daughter, but no wedding ring. You’re not a member of this group, but here you are.”

  “I told you why I’m here.”

  “Where did you learn to ride a horse like that?”

  “A long time ago I rode green broke horses. As rusty as I was, I was just happy to stay on. Now my turn. Did you put me on Rowdy to keep me from coming here? Hoping I’d get bucked off?”

  He moved closer. Heat radiated off his body. He smelled of a blend of aftershave and campfire smoke.

  I didn’t care if he answered my question.

  “And you saved Ruby’s life.” He reached up to touch my hair, then let his hand drop.

  “A pleasant good evening to you, is it . . . Blake? Yes. Blake.” The pastor’s teeth gleamed in the dim light as he approached. “And you must be the new one.”

  “Ah, yes, I’m—”

  “No names, please.” The pastor looked over the pond. “Baptism here tomorrow. I wouldn’t stay out late.”

  “We were just leaving.” Blake motioned toward the tents and said to me, “Let me walk you back to your daughter.”

  I didn’t want to walk back to my daughter. I wanted more time to see what was next with him.

  Careful not to touch me, he waved his hand toward the tents.
“Evening, Pastor.”

  “God bless you, son.”

  The moonlight-on-the-water-in-autumn moment was gone, and I didn’t know how to get it back.

  Aynslee sat cross-legged on the ground outside the tent. She stood when she saw us. Blake gave a small salute with his fingers, then merged into the night.

  “I like him.” Aynslee’s eyes crinkled with delight. “Even if you do think he’s a Neanderthal.”

  A short laugh came from the direction of his retreating footsteps.

  I dove into the tent. A cot with a sleeping bag sat on my left, a second sleeping bag on the ground to the right, both with pillows. A paper sack resting on the cot contained two toothbrushes, a comb, a travel-sized tube of toothpaste, a sliver of soap obviously lifted from a motel, and a hand towel. Also included in my travel inventory were two very worn but clean flannel nightgowns. From the generous size I guessed they belonged to Ruby.

  Missing was some industrial-strength deodorant. “I don’t suppose in your wandering around camp that you overheard how long this revival lasts?”

  Aynslee’s mouth was open in horror at the nightgowns. “Am I supposed to sleep in that?”

  “Yes, and be grateful we’re not sleeping in our clothes. We smell like horse and smoke. And soon we’ll reek of sweat. Now, to answer my question?”

  “Morning baptism. Singing and praying and stuff after lunch. Another service tomorrow night, this time with communion and foot washing.”

  “Maybe I can opt in for whole body washing. In the meantime, I’ll just have to stay downwind of everyone.” Starting with the sleeping bag, I inspected it for spiders, snakes, and other critters. I did the same for Aynslee’s bag, then moved on to examining the tent from top to bottom. Satisfied the area was clear, I turned off the lantern.

  “What did you do that for?” Aynslee asked.

  “I’m getting into my nightie. I don’t need to give anyone a silhouetted show.” And if anyone were watching, they’d see my silhouette was that of a boy once I took off my bra. What would Blake, or any man, think about that?

  Tugging off my crumpled blouse and skirt, I draped them as flat as possible on the webbed floor of the tent. Cool air chilled my skin, and the nightgown, smelling of sunshine and fresh air, felt soft and warm. I slipped inside the sleeping bag and fluffed up the pillow. I thought about Blake and snuggled deeper into the bed.

  “Why can’t Sarah talk?” Aynslee asked.

  “What?”

  “Sarah. Why can’t she talk?”

  I made an effort to shift gears. “I don’t know exactly. As I understand it, she stopped speaking when her sister died several months ago.”

  Aynslee was silent for a few moments. I thought she’d fallen asleep when she spoke again. “I think she wants me to be her sister.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you.”

  Again Aynslee was silent. Finally she said, “That’s the first time in . . . like, forever . . . that you’ve given me a compliment.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s not true! I think the world of you and I love you more than you’ll ever know. I tell everybody what a great person you are.”

  “Ya gotta say it to me, Mom. I need to hear you say it.”

  I lay in bed a long time, staring into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE RICH AROMA OF FRESHLY BREWED COFFEE pulled me from my restless sleep. The gray light in the tent spoke of early morning, but Aynslee’s sleeping bag was already empty. I dressed, shivering in the cool, damp air, and wrapped Blake’s coat around me.

  Aynslee, with her Sarah shadow, was sitting beside Ruby at a campfire. Ruby nodded at a blue enamel coffeepot perched on a rock next to the fire. I found a cup and helped myself before sitting down.

  “Did you sleep well?” Ruby asked.

  “Well enough, thank you. Thank you for the nightgowns and toiletries.” Coffee grounds filled the steaming brew.

  “It’s camp coffee,” Ruby said, noting my expression. “Add a bit of cold water to the top and the grounds will settle.”

  I found the water and did as she suggested. It worked. “Aynslee told me you would be baptizing this morning, with worship throughout the day. Maybe we could work on the drawing of Samuel before all that begins.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at me. “First have some breakfast, then we’ll start. And, once again, thank you.”

  Soon all of us were again seated beside the fire while we consumed overflowing platefuls of eggs, bacon, and grits. I was growing quite fond of grits. They seemed to be an excuse for eating massive amounts of butter.

  “Ruby,” I said, noticing one of the men who’d handled snakes the night before. “I heard somewhere that . . . well . . . you might force someone . . . or say a child . . . to follow the Mark 16 signs.”

  “Oh my heavens, no.” Ruby put her plate down and ran her hand down her daughter’s hair. “Children are not allowed to be near the serpents until they’re eighteen. And you need God’s anointing to do any of the signs. I’ve handled serpents, but unless I’m anointed, I’m terrified of them.”

  “Really?” Her comments were completely opposite of what I’d been told. “So that’s why there aren’t any children here?”

  “Just Sarah. After what happened to, well, you know, I don’t want her out of my sight.”

  Had I been lied to about the practices here, or was it an honest mistake? I itched for my sketchbook and a chance to write down my thoughts, but Blake wandered over, smiled, and waved at Aynslee before looking at me.

  My hand flew to my hair, checking for tangles or cowlicks.

  Blake’s grin grew wider.

  I stood up abruptly. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be here when you’re ready to start the drawing.”

  Thinking about spiders and snakes in the woods, I debated testing my bladder’s capacity, but Aynslee was already giggling at my hesitation.

  Straightening my shoulders, I marched toward the toilet paper marker.

  Ruby had pulled two webbed lawn chairs together near the stream by the time I returned. The low murmur of conversation around the campfires formed a pleasant backdrop. Birds called each other from the trees, and the smell of smoke from the fires drifted on the crisp October air. The sun warmed me, and I slipped off the jacket, then settled next to her with my Bristol paper and HB pencil. I handed her the first sketch I’d done of Samuel. “What changes should I do to make this drawing look more like your son?” While Ruby studied the drawing, I roughed in the face on a fresh piece of paper.

  “His eyes,” Ruby said. “They looked more sleepy. And his lips were fuller.”

  I gave the sketch heavy lids and changed the mouth. “What else?”

  “He had such a sparkle about him. He loved the Lord.”

  The sparkle would be a larger highlight in the eyes. I wasn’t sure how to draw “loving the Lord,” so I tried a hint of a smile. “Okay.” I continued sketching.

  “I miss him so.” Ruby was staring at the burbling stream. “I miss all of them.”

  I paused in midstroke. “All of them?”

  “Folks who were here last year from our church family. Most of them went to Jimmy and Mamaw’s church. Pretty Twyla Fay . . .”

  I sat up straighter. “What happened to Twyla Fay?”

  “Oh, I just go on some. Never mind me.”

  I’d never heard of Twyla Fay, but I wanted to follow up on her comments. I continued to sketch until the hum of voices along with the clatter of chairs indicated breakfast was over and baptisms were soon to start.

  Ruby nodded slightly downstream to where the creek formed a small pool. “The baptism will be there. You can watch from here . . . unless . . .” She gave me a slight smile.

  “Unless what?”

  “You’d like to be baptized?”

  “Thank you for the offer. I’m covered.”

  “Many of our members get rebaptized. Like a rededication to the Lord.”

  “
Thank you, but I’ll just use the time to work on Samuel’s drawing.”

  She patted my knee, stood, and strolled toward where people were gathering.

  I recognized the six snake handlers from the night before. No one seemed to be paying me any attention, so I turned to a clean sheet of paper and sketched thumbnails of each person. Under each thumbnail I jotted notes on hair and eye color, clothing, mannerism, and anything else to help with the identification.

  Someone touched my shoulder.

  I jumped and snapped my sketchbook closed.

  Aynslee grinned at me. “Scared ya, didn’t I?”

  “A bit.” Glancing around to be sure no one was watching, I tore out the thumbnail sketches and placed them in the back of the pad.

  She took Ruby’s chair. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What would you think if I got baptized?” She twisted her fingers together.

  “Well, depending on whether snakes are involved—”

  “They’re not. I asked. It’s just water and stuff.”

  I touched her shiny ginger hair. “I’d be very proud of you.”

  She smiled. “You’re getting better at it.”

  “What?”

  “Saying nice things to me.” She stood and raced toward the gathering.

  I made an effort to shut my mouth. Had I really stopped telling my only child how much I cared? How proud I was of the young woman she was becoming? I put the drawing pad down and slowly followed.

  Blake was sitting on the opposite shore, watching. I pretended not to see him. I was way too aware of his presence.

  The pastor and another man were standing in the middle of the pond in waist-deep water. A line of seven people, of all ages, dressed in white robes, waited their turn. One by one they would wade into the chilly water.

  A sudden memory assaulted my brain: another cold stream, the acrid odor of skunk cabbage, the howl of wolves.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. My legs grew rubbery. I sank to the dewy ground and put my head between my knees. It’s okay. I’m safe. Get control.